Relics of Their Forefathers
by CaliforniaTD
Summary: In this story of guilt, sentimentality, and comradeship, set in the backdrop of a large and bloody invasion by the forces of chaos, a Bretonnian knight and his growing retinue of unusual comrades set on a perilous journey to slay a trio of the dark Gods' most dangerous champions. Before this, they must travel Araby to locate a lost artifact from the crusades waged centuries prior.
1. Twas Quiet not a Moment Ago

_Bonjour, readers! I'm back after Good God knows how the heck long. And we're doing something very different, a Warhammer Fantasy story, possibly the first of several. Its a straightforward high adventure vehicle, inspired by the Diablo series chiefly, as well as robust handfuls of other such things, including my passion for history!_

_Fair warning, it's Warhammer. It's a rough, tough, bloody world that's darker than the bottom of a dwarven latrine. There will be some heavy, violent shit._

_Also I'm very bad at editing and proofreading my own stuff, so by all means, call me out on my mistakes in the reviews. In fact, I'm open any kind of criticism, be it constructive or vulgar._

_In the meantime, enjoy!_****

**Chapitere 1 – 'Twas Quiet for a Moment**

_Duchy of Quenelles  
Southern Bretonnia  
__Early Brauziet, 2521 (Imperial Calendar)_

The air was tart and heady with the stink of blight. Everywhere one turned, previously the bravest folk were convinced they could hear the breathing of dark gods near them – their stifled laughter as they watched, eager to see their misfortune or a dismal fate at the hands of its servants.

Through the sickly mist that straddled the land, Tobie Jacquard led his horse along the crossing between two patches of farmland, the chilly creekwater spilling over the outer leggings of his boots and joining his socks within. He could not see the carrion birds due to the dense fog, but could most certainly hear them. Particularly in front of him. A short report from his horse's nose and mouth made it evident that for the first time in a few hours, the black mare was nervous. It was not that Jacquard did not care, but that he felt that he could not afford to idle at any rate. There was plenty of road ahead of them, and scarce time to waste.

They emerged from the crossing, though for whatever reason Jacquard felt a clutch in his gut that told him that he should continue leading the steed, at least half a hundred paces further. Ginette, his steed, cocked her head sharply to the side in protest of the direction they were taking. Still, Jacquard urged them forth.

The trees were stricken by the early autumn, and the leaves had just begun to commute into an orange shade. If the harvest at this corner of Bretonnia was going to be any good, it was all for naught. The kingdom's numerous invaders and belligerents were sure to take or taint what the peasantry had worked so hard to sow and grow. It was a degree beyond madness. A few steps past disconcertion. And most certainly a great meloncholy was falling over much of the Old World.

The wind howled, and it was difficult to discern which sounds were real. Was it the chortling of dark gods, the screams and cries of distant commoners and countryfolk being slaughtered ? Mayhap both. Dread and anticipation of the foul lingered in the mind of the Bretonnian noble as he hiked through the murky air. He was fairly certain this was farmstead belonging to Sir Crispin, or the baron that he tithed to. But he was unsure whether or not it was still under the protection of Bretonnia's feudal knights, or had fallen to their enemies. If there was immediate resistance in the hinterlands he traveled through, he was either not spotted, or outright ignored. If his presence was made known, it was either that the sight of he and his horses' armor, barding, and trappings had deterred them, or that one person and his horse simply was not worth stalking or running down.

The sillouette of a large tree made itself apparent slightly to the right of his fore. He recognized it, and knew he was in the largest orchard in Sir Crispin's modest fiefdom. If his memory regarding the geography was still germane, he warranted a small patch of farmer's huts were immediately to its, and his north.

He snorted in a mixture of frustration and ironic jest. The fog could properly be discribed as absurd. It was beginning to irritate him at this point as he marched on, angling the reigns of his horse to the north. As the shacks crept into view, all in accordance to his memory, he kept a firm grip on the onyx hilt of his broadsword. Ginette whinnied, possibly in agitation.

"Steady there girl." Jacquard urged. The walk to the center of the orchard felt longer than he had liked, possibly for the horse, too. The wind had quieted, and the caws of the buzzards had muffled. All that was heard were the steps of foot and hoof, the heavy breathing of Ginette, the clinking of Jacquard's field plate, in addition to the creaking of the loose shutters of the huts.

He led the steed to a well and hitched his horse on the rickety wooden bucket arch. « Stay here, Gin. It's okay, I'll not stray. » He calmed his horse. He sighed after he turned. It was going to be a long journey. He prepared to search the homes and sheds for any foodstuffs or useful supplies. It was common knowledge that peasants of Bretonnia had few possessions other than essential materials for craft, labor, and comfort. He would rather not live on hard biscuits, dried fruit and sweetened wine for the entirety of the journey south.

He slowly drew his sword, the steel blade responding with a long and quiet hiss as it departed from its sheath. He placed his free hand, covered in rings of steel chain mail, and gently shoved the door open.

The hut was empty. Though everything seemed to have been missing. He crouched low in the dark area. There wasn't much to see within the interior, but there were mild signs of struggle and ransacking in an otherwise empty shack. The scratches on the floor and wall, as well as specks of blood made it abundantly clear.

He sighed and emerged, Ginette still staring at him in the fog, fanning her head and tail in an irritated manner as the rest of her body stood still.

Jacquard moseyed onto the next shack, this one also empty, save for a loose plank containing two silver candlesticks. Contraband on the part of the serfdom, punishable by flogging or worse by their liege. Life for the commonfolk in this land was scarcely a picnic, even in times of peace and tranquility. Bretonnia was a vicious, despotic feudal society, where all the power, wealth, and luxury fell to the noble tyrants from knight errant, to duke, to king.

Jacquard absconded with the finery and returned to his horse, placing the silver items into one of the saddlebags with ease, as they were not terribly bulky. He still had one shack to check, as well as the barn, which was possibly a makeshift storehouse. If the liege of the peasants who somehow got their mits on these valuables was still around, he'd hand him over to the former. If Sir Crispin or the Baron he served were not around or alive, it was his for pawning or bartering.

The last home was empty, save for the center table having a clay plate with a slice of cheese. It looked old and sweaty, but quite edible. He picked it up, biting into it and chewing it. Good enough for him. "Ah, mm. Savoureux."

He emerged, having eaten over half of the thin wedge. The first thing that should have caught his intention was the swaying movement and whinnying of his horse. Either that or those who flanked him, a dozen on each side.

He froze, lifting his head and silently cursing his carelessness. "Bonjour..." He heard a female voice to his left say. "...you foppish shiteater."

A quartet of plated knuckles collided hard with his cheek, and he fell down with a metallic thud. Returning to his feet in plate armor was going to be a little more than difficult, but he was going to try anyway as he once again unsheathed his broadsword.

A man in front of him stood. Bald with a goatee and a hand axe, wearing trousers made of a hybrid of beast fur and quilting, as well as heavy boots. His left arm, and much of corresponding shoulder was heavily tattooed with imagry and dark text. His left nipple had been pierced with a ringe attatched to a very thin chain of small brass rings, that hung and loosely tied around a strap on an iron shoulder pad on his right, the only other thing his trunk was clad in. He brought his hand axe around and swung at the Bretonnian's side.

The axehead collided with the plated cuirass, knocking the wind slowly out of him with each strike. The armor was too strong, but would give way if repeated. He felt the presence of his other attackers close in, and he had to act fast. He brought his broadsword out of the scabbard finally, getting to his knees bringing the blade over his head and lurching his arm, as well as what body weight he could muster. Before the next axe blow could land, the arm that held it had been seperated by steel just above the elbow and fell into the browning grass.

He turn turned and parried a blow from a shortsword, rising to his feet and instinctively lunging to the nearest target, running one of the assailants through the upper abdomen just shy of the hilt. He lugged the blade out, the mohawked muscleman who attempted to attack him dropping a rusty broadsword and staggered in short zig zag intervals as he coughed and held his wound, before collapsing onto the ground.

He looked around, seeing the attackers were now in a state of caution, keeping distance as the majority held a guarded stance. « You see, knight ? » The woman from before told him, a pale woman with raven black hair and pale skin began. « This is what we're hoping to avoid. »

« Bien. » He piped, scouring his flanks as the other attackers were clearly sidestepping and trying to find a flank, making eye contact briefly with each of them. « We'll be here all day if this continues, putain. »

"Your stubbly Bretonnian mouth better not be making promises your pillowy ass can't keep." She spoke. She had less tattoos than the rest of the warriors, a purple garish mark on her shoulder, resembling a sphere with a jagged line where a hook rest at the end. He was not formerly educated in the field, but he had a strong feeling it was a mark of one of the dark gods. On the rest of her person, was a sleeveless scale mail tunic, fingerless leather gloves, a pair of short cloth pants that bared her legs above the knees, and short lengthed boots with jagged spikes crafted into the toes. She carry a javelin at her side, her offhand brandishing an impressively crafted, though troublingly sinister looking war axe.

It did not take a scholar to know these were marauders from the frozen north. The invasion from the northern tribes had confederated and were ravaging the south and destroying anything in their path. Bretonnia was not safe either. He scoured around, not answering the woman who led the band. The man who attacked him with an axe earlier was still locked on him, though keeping his distance as he clasped the stump where his severed forearm used to socket. He occasionally brought his fingers up to taste his own blood, like the maniac he and the rest of the northerners were.

Ginette was neighing and bucking in a fury, the wooden well arch jiggling from the warhorses attempts to get free. « It was so quiet and peaceful until you lot showed up. » He lamented. "What did you do with the peasants here ? What of the lord ?"

"Gierj. Shut him up." The warband leader ordered, lifting her javelin slightly and looking to be in a more active state of combat. One of the mauraders tried to charge into him with his sword, which looked to have been stolen from a Bretonnian knight judging by the craftsmanship. He parried a few blows before bringing his own broadsword up, the tip of the blade cutting a very shallow, but lengthy laceration into the side of his head, from under his jaw just past the bridge of his nose. The northman whom's arm Jacquard severed used his remaining arm to choke him from behind, in an attempt to immobilize him. It only took one blow from his elbow to knock him off and onto his rump, where he made a horizontal slash and carved a large fissure into his throat, which quickly spurting with blood.

As he fell, he turned and parried more blows, his armor absorbing a large amount of the damage, but one blow from a sword left a shallow cut along his knee. He brought his sword over his head and bashed a growling bearded northman over the scalp with his hilt, then turned and attempted to attack the leader of the group. She chucked the javelin toward him, and it collided with his chest. Before it fell to the ground it had pierced the plate, but the chain mail under it had absorbed the rest of the blow. The weight of the javelin had almost knocked him down again, the Bretonnian trying to regain his balance. All it took was a swift blow from a two handed hammer along his back to knock him over entirely.

The muscle and flesh over his left kidney was most certainly bruising as he fell flat on his face, and his broadsword had left his hand. Attempting to get back up, his gauntleted hand reached for his hunting knife at his belt, but the bare knuckles of the large man he cut across the face from before struck him in the temple, and his vision fuzzed and greyed as he fell flat on his stomach.

There was nothing he could do now, as his stamina had seemingly left him. « Spare the horse ! We can use him ! » The woman shouted.

"Strip that knight ! I want the steel he's clad in !" A male maurader shouted, the voices and sights all dimming.

At this point, he was not sure if the journey was going to be even longer, or much shorter.


	2. And Slaanesh Followed

_A little thing some of you may have noticed, why yes, I am throwing in an occasional word from the language parallel to the kingdom/nation/etc's corresponding areas in real life. French for Bretonnian, Spanish for Estalian, a myriad of Scandinavian dialects for the northern tribes, etc. I won't do it too often, but, just letting you know it's there.****_

_**CONTENT WARNING**: Sexual assault is depicted in this chapter. I'm going to make a brief recap at the beginning of each chapter, so if it might irk, feel free to pass over this one._****

**Chapitere 2 – And Slaanesh Followed**

Jacquard awoke to the smell of heavy perfume brewing in a pot, and angry voices around him. He was not sure at what length of time he was unconscious. Unbeknownst to the Bretonnian knight, it was only a little over two hours. He lay on his side, surrounded by lumbering silhouettes that stamped past him.

"You come back only a minute or two later and you cannot find anyone? Where did they all go?!" He heard the shout of a male northerner. Jacquard lay on his side, his body feeling cold and wet, and his knees and toes feeling raw and tingling with a briny sense of pain. His wrists were worse off, wrapped with barbed wiring that dug into his flesh. He looked down. Apart from seeing that his knees were mildly skinned and grass stained from being dragged, he had also been stripped completely nude. The bastards had taken everything he had.

"Moron." The man from before groaned as he left the scout he was berating to his shame. "Maiden." He called over, and the knight looked behind him with gritted teeth as he approached the woman who led the small band. She sat on an opulent field chair as she rubbed her chin in thought, the seat covered in velvet and brass buttons. There were war tents that were also rather gaudy in color and material as well. He indeed was wondering just what kind of barbarians he was dealing with here.

"I know you cannot find them. I know not where they are either." She got off her chair and turned to her tattooed and muscular subordinate.

"Shall we court the Gods for answers Maiden?" Another marauder asked, this a tattooed woman, wearing only a fur battle skirt, boots, and a chained ring on one of her bare nipples.

"Do we look like Tzeentch worshippers to you?" She chuckled, almost offended. "We wait it out, rest, and we travel east to find other spots to raid."

"Will we rejoin Sigvald's army?" Another northman asked.

"That's the direction we're traveling, is it not?" She told them. "We've enough supplies for the next couple of days. We layover here until tomorrow's nightfall, then we press on." She looked directly to Jacquard noticing he was awake but not saying anything immediately. The hairs on his neck stood up. "You may scout for more locations and supplies to pillage, but only in parties of no less than three."

"Ja, Maiden." He smiled.

"Dark Prince of Chaos be praised, we have tread a righteous and fortunate path." The warband leader said. "Despite our losses and the... disappearance of the rest of our cohorts."

"Battle Must is almost ready, warmaiden." One of the mauraders told them.

"Good." She nodded. The tattooed female maurader from before flanked her superior as she looked at the helpless Breton as he lay on his side. They both approached him after a while. "Rise and shine." They brought him to his feet, difficult to stand due to the shallow puncture in his shin. The other mauraders, mostly guarding the perimeter and eating meals chuckled and catcalled him for a briefly as they noticed the knight had awoken.

"I suppose we can offer the good lad's wretched life to the Prince of Pleasure later." The one they referred to as "warmaiden" said.

"Oh, my bloody ravaged stars. What a catch." The other northern woman said, her eyes surrounded by violet paint and her white teeth contorting into a grin. "Usually they're fucking ugly, these Bretons. Usually we sacrifice peasants. A knight'll fetch good favor."

"Ja, he likely will." The warmaiden approached him from the front, and leaned her pale and terrible head close to his. "Are you a knight errant? What be your title, fellow?" Her iris were peculiar and filled with jagged lines, and the whites seemed to be slightly pinkened, but with no blood vessels visible.

Jacquard could not discern whether or not it was stubbornness or simply, raw fear that drove him into silence. He did not feel himself stammer, but just looked down and around. It was at this point he did in fact, feel quite nervous. It turned to silent despair he realized the situation seemed almost unreal. He hoped it was a nightmare he would awake from. His head was swimming with bargains, justifications, and denial. If he had any energy, he felt as if he was close to screaming.

"Muscles like that, he may be a Marquis!" The lower ranking marauder woman chuckled, hands on her hips as she shifted her weight and puckered her lips.

"What is your rank? Will you not answer?" The warmaiden shook her head, scratching her chin, unsure of what else to do. He was so horrified and helpless, he felt his legs weakening, and his head pounding. He felt lesser ranking northerner stepped closer to him, her tattoed hand running from his midriff down lower.

"I don't think we need to torture him, maiden." The tattooed woman spoke as she stroked his genitals. She leaned in and passionately licked the side of his face. "Even if he gives us nothing, let me have him for the day."

"Alright, fine. Some of us may want him later, too." She stepped away, and he was wordlessly led through the camp into a velvet tent.

An opulent lamp with looked to be from Estalia from the design, lay in the far corner of the tent. Bone chimes hung from the ceiling. Jacquard, still shivering, looked to a large golden and runed bowl on the floor, filled with a mixture of caltrops, nails, flesh, blood, and minces of organs.

"Nevermind that, little orphan." She undid the painful barbed iron around his wrists, and shoved him gently toward the furred cot on the ground. She hopped on one foot each in place with a psychotic grin as she removed her boots. "The bowl is just for rituals." She removed the cloth skirt off her hips, leaving her just about as naked as he was. She approached him slowly, and an uncomfortable overabundance of emotions he could not identify filled his head.

She leaned into him and kissed his neck, and bit into his ear uncomfortably. He made a shout and pushed her off. "Apologies." She shook her head. "I get carried away." She gripped one of his bloodied wrists, albeit gently and guided it toward the bare breast that was not pierced. Her hands were trembling slightly harder than his was, likely because the northwoman was in a libidinous state. After a while, she looked down, and she bit her smiling lower lip. He looked down as well, seeing that he was almost fully aroused and mentally cursed himself.

She grasped him on his shoulders, pushing him downward, the Breton taking the hint and laying on his back. "Prince be praised." She began to straddle him. She really was quite lovely, in spite of his hatred for what she and her warband were doing to her. Perhaps this was the only peaceful moment he'd have. It was difficult but he bit his lip and decided to sustain his arousal, grabbing her by her tattooed hips.

It would appear that he was the only one who noticed as she reached in between their legs and adjusted herself, but something fell over outside, and more disconcerting noises occurred in the exterior.

"Ambush! Pick 'em up!" He heard one of the marauders scream, as there were sounds of a sortie clearly escalating outside. "Pick 'em up and fight you craven-" The voice was cut off as something was lodged in his throat. It was hardly difficult to venture on what it was.

The tattooed woman quickly ascended to her feet, drawing a large, broad bladed dagger from a pile of her belongings and dark trinkets. A silhouette darkened the entrance of the tent, hooded and brandishing a bow and arrow. The northwoman hissed, faked to the left before ducking and approaching from the other end. The tactic did not fool the person at the opening, and an arrow found its way deep in between her immense breasts. The tip of the arrow crooked just next to her spine, and she croaked as if the breath were drawn out of her lungs, and her naked body fell onto the ground as she clutched the missile that impaled her.

Jacquard rushed to his feet, wheezing in nervousness as he stumbled toward the hooded figure, whom had nocked another arrow, and drawn it back. "No! I am not one- not one of them! I'm not-"

The figure was in mid tackled by a large, burlier one, likely one of the northmen. But the arrow itself had been released in mid collision, a little more off the mark. The broadhead tipped arrow pierced through his left bicep, just under the shoulder and he shouted in pain, the arrow going so deep it hung and dangled by the feathers that were lodged in the flesh of the exit wound. He fell to his knees, yelling as the figure from before was being savagely attacked by the marauder that lumbered over whomever it was. Another hooded person zipped into view, bringing a strangle, glimmering blade into the back of the northern brute's neck and shoving him to the side as he lay quickly dying from the recent ambush.

Jacquard attempted to emerge as he heard Ginette whinnying outside, but he felt his ankle being gripped, and he fell over, halfway through the enterance. The northern woman in the tent was in her final breaths, as she tried to pin him and finish him off with the large dagger, bringing it over her head. She got a few nicks and small cuts on his arms, and in frustration, agony, and rage, he screamed as he ripped the rest of the arrow out of his exit wound and shoved it toward her face, the tip going through her eye and into her brain, and she finally fell over to the side.

The knight kicked her off of him, wheezing and getting to his feet. His arm and side were becoming bloodier from the quickly bleeding wound. He stepped toward Ginette, who was joined by two of the hooded attackers as they attempted to calm it and lead it. "Stop! That's my horse!" He shouted, the other one turning and nocking an arrow into a composite bow, his eyes were dark, almost obsidian in color.

"No. I am not one of them, damn it!" He shouted. "I am-"

A second later, he was being strangled by someone from behind, his legs being pinned under him. This was clearly somebody who knew what they were doing.

"S'okay. Don't fight it, mayfly." The voice whispered into his ear. He felt himself slipping away, and his vision being dimmed. "Don't fight it."


	3. Hidden Fortress

_Hope you're still with me, readers! I would have worked on and updated this sooner, but I've been working overtime the entire week!_

_In the previous chapter, Bretonnian Knight Tobie Jacquard was captured and robbed of his belongings by a northling warband of a Slaanesh worshippers before he was fortunately rescued by hooded assailants who raided the camp of the chaos invaders, and was once again knocked unconscious and dragged these warriors did not seem terribly hostile..._****

**Chapitere 3 – Hidden Fortress**

The stag grazed under the dying leaves of the forest, a few good paces from his heard. His torso rested between the crosshairs of the man who held it. The latter's face was dashed with the ashes of burnt cork to conceal the shine of oil and sweat, a hood hanging over his brow, twigs of pine needles fitted into his field clothing.

The stag's horned head darted up a burst of crows escaped from the trees, his ears twitching several times afterward. To the hidden hunter, he knew he may not get a better shot than this. He squeezed the iron lever of the crossbow, and the bolt was slung at a great velocity, finding its mark in the deer's grey neck, sending it toppling on its side.

Swen Klammen rose slowly, resting his crossbow over his shoulder as he surveyed his work. The imperial mercenary stepped over the cluster of branches that perched on the knee high ledge that hid him from view. His feet crunched the twigs scattered about the patch of woodland, lifting the hood off of the burgundy colored hair atop his head, once a pefectly even bowl cut, now shaggy and uneven after months of negligence. The tall mercenary rubbed his full beard with the black leather hunting gloves as he approached the prey.

He was startled as the deer rose to its feet quickly, wheezing as it made a break for it. Luckily it was disoriented and did not head for the herd. "Ah shit." He cursed in his native reikspiel tongue. He hastily loped toward the deer in the uneven forest ground, juggling the onset of the tracking process and reloading the crossbow. It was not long before he lagged behind the herbivorous beast.

The blood was easily visible on the naked dirt between the patches of leaves and sticks, and he followed it quickly. The deer was torn between two paths, the shock of his wound confusing him as he darted in between two trees. Creeping toward the bewildered beast, he placed the stock of the crossbow into his shoulder, and fired a second bolt. This one hitting in the hip of one of his hind legs and inducing another plunge to the forest floor.

The stag twitched softly, and Swen crept close, reaching for his stiletto in anticipation of the very real possibility that he'd have to finish it off up close. Upon further examination, it was very clear that the deer had lost too much blood, and was in the latter half of its final throes.

He then reached for his fowling whistle, pressing it toward his lips and puffing to signal his comrades.

Swen rode along side another man, Simon von Gruppen, who's mule had much of his left side festooned with freshly slain hares. "That could very well be your cleanest kill, Sweeny." Von Gruppen chuckled, turning his mohawked head and smirking his mustached face at his comrade. "At this rate you'll make an apprentice rate tracker in yay, about... fifty years?"

"Longer if we're lucky." Swen replied, his tongue firmly planted in his cheek. "How long until these damn daggies let us bring the powder and shot on the hunt? Getting a mite weary of borrowing Weinbacher's crook-shot arbalist."

Von Gruppen sighed at the insolence of the statement. "The wood elves generously allow us to share camp and earn fair keep, and you wanna break out the handguns. Classic Sweeny."

"The broadlobes are doing right by me, Simon, don't get me wrong." He rubbed the back of his neck as he felt the air cool. They were approaching the bayou to the north, and across the makeshift bridge onto a small island, rest the wood elf holdout. "I just wish we were permitted to fight and hunt in our element."

"Fighting is what you're good at doing, yes." Von Gruppen leaned over the side of his mount and spat into wet grass. "We've talked about your skill at hunting."

"Javol. The career as the Emperor's deerslayer may have to wait." Swen agreed at the demurral of his own ego. He reined the horse, prompting the steed to slow as it approached the water. The wooden bridge was shallowly submerged into the slow moving bayou water was made from light, but sturdy wood. Well hidden, and marked with two unremarkable overturned stones, he crossed the length of it, his comrade following suit.

They reached the end, a small staggered column of broadhead arrows cropping out of the most unassuming places, their wielders well hidden in the brush. "Rekeldair!" One of them piped.

"Farcrudammars!" Swen Klammen replied, his voice damp with irritability and disinterest. Simon supressed the urge to slap his own face as his comrade butchered the countersign password. He was interrupted before he corrected him.

"Whatever, whatever. Just get in here." An annoyed voice of a waywatcher moaned, the others relaxing the strings of their finely crafted composite bows. "Squalid lumberfoots."

"That's us, alright." Simon jested as they rode in. The holdout seemed to be partially hidden from itself, as the fore of the encampment was festooned with wood elves and their heavily camoflauged tents and bedrolls. Some even slept along the bulkier arms of the trees.

"Morning, Keolanda." Klammen saluted with two fingers along the brow from atop his horse as he greeted the leader of the encampment, a Shadowdancer.

"We'll speak later, Reiklander." The long auburn haired she-elf replied as she turned from speaking to a squad of glade guards. They continued to canter slowly toward the rear end of the scantly defended hold, where the non-elven, or sick and wounded occupants quartered.

"How many times do I have to tell everybody that I'm from Stirland?" Swen chuckled, as it seemed very few not native or frequent to the Empire would not notice the Stirlander drawl.

"Sometimes even I forget that that province exists." Von Gruppen, who hailed from Marienburg, removed his gloves as he prepared to dismount.

"Me too, as a matter of fact." He chortled as he approached the spot where he usually hitched his horse. "Zounds. Now that's just sad."

"Not as sad as you forgetting to clean up your horses' shit, Sweeny, you turnip brained prick!" A hearty, feminine voice bellowed. That of "Cutmug" Claudia Weinbacher, the company halbardier, who emerged from behind a tent, an iron bowl of venison and sauerkraut held in her hands.

Swen shook his head and chuckled as he dismounted. "Well, did you clean it up, Cutty?"

"Nein. Left that to one of the local peasant girls who string around here." She chuckled, her heavily scarred, square jawed face occupied half with a smile, and mostly chewing the food in her camping bowl.

"Atta girl. Leave any for us?" Von Gruppen inquired as he dusted off his hands, even though they were previously gloved and in minimal squall.

"Javol. Help yourself. Save some for the refugees though." She swallowed a tuft of sauerkraut immediately afterward.

"By the by, is Mouse here?" Swen began to untie the jute rope that held the deer on the rear hump of his steed.

"Umm..." Claudia blinked. "Fairly certain you would have seen him, Sweeny."

"Yeah, he IS pretty hard to miss." The Stirlander made a hardy grunt as he lifted the vanquished deer over his shoulder. "Wow, what the fuck are these things eating? I don't recall the ones in the Empire being this corpulent."

"Probably because you're getting old, Sweeny." Von Gruppen patted him on his free shoulder, and juked past him to retrieve the slain rabbits off of his mule. "Or more likely, the deer ARE bigger. It's one of numerous reasons why Bretonnians have a hard time suffering from famine."

"Yeah, that might change." Sweeny shook his head.

"Hey, they dragged in another local today." Claudia tilted her head to the direction of the medical tent.

"Whoopty-shit, Cutty."

"Nein, Sweeny. I heard the lad talk to himself as they lugged him in, naked and feverish. The way he spoke, he had to have been a noble."

Swen turned around to Claudia mid-stride, looking at her for a second before turning his head to Von Gruppen, who had a look of equal surprise.

"You or anybody else hear or mention his name?" Von Gruppen inquired.

"Not that I know of. Like I said, he was without any belongings. It's not like he had any tattoos like we do. Lovely cock, though." She chuckled.

"You think all cocks are lovely, Cutty." Swen shook his head. "You wanna see to it, Simon?"

"I will." Von Gruppen replied, hands on his hips as he looked toward the blemished camp ground. "Cutty, finish eating and help get the game to the block and help Sweeny dress them for the butcher."

"Javol. We gotta find out what's going on with Mouse eventually, too." The halberdier replied, scratching her platinum blonde braided hair.

"Yeah, he's been gone since yesterday afternoon." Von Gruppen cleared his throat and spat on the ground. "We'll find him. Toughest son of a bitch in the company." The Marienburger then made a beeline for the tent, dodging a couple of peasant refugees who were hauling small bundles of firewood to the center.

The medical tent was surprisingly quiet, as it was usually filled with moans and screams of the wounded, as well as the violent functions of those stricken with dysentery. A wood elfen healer, kind enough to volunteer to assist humans in their state of malaise, stepped near Von Gruppen, stopping her before she became too preoccupied.

"Pardon, Die Frau. I was told you brought a Bretonnian here?" He asked. The she-elf cocked her head in confusion. Simon cleared his throat, and repeated the sentence in Bretonnian instead.

"Oh, him?" The healer nodded. "He was found in a camp, wounded, but in stable condition. The raiding party that found him in a northerner camp. Said he and a northling woman were in a state of undress and were sharing a tent together." She beckoned him to follow past a line of stretchers. "They thought about killing him as a suspected warrior of chaos, but they heard him muttering in Bretonnian. Some intimate things."

"What did he say? Did you get a name?"

"I don't know. They did not go into detail, and I did not have time to let his wounds fester." She replied, pointing at the direction of a man on his back. He had a small blanket over his lap and he lay there on the cot, sleeping possibly with a mildly unpleasant dream due to the look on his face. Atop his scalp was a Bretonnian undercut, an extremely common hairstyle for local knights.

"May I speak to him?" Von Gruppen replied.

"I suppose. But don't agitate him." The healer replied, turning to resume her duties.

Von Gruppen went to the side of the cot and squatted down. "Excuse me." He said in Bretonnian. "Ser. Ser?" He tapped him lightly, the knight wordlessly twitching in a heavy startle before looking toward him.

Von Gruppen cleared his throat. "Good knight, may I ask your name?"

"Jacquard..." He sighed, turning his head and closing his eyes. "Tobie Jacquard. Ah... Vassal of the Duke Basillone of Quenelles, and sworn sword of Viscount Aymeric of the Bochniniere Hinterland..." He coughed.

Von Gruppen looked to the side, his eye twitching. He looked back toward him. "Ser Tobie, my name is Lieutenant Simon von Gruppen, of the Bloom Eagle Company. About a month ago, our captain received a letter of credit from you, worth 2,000 Bretonnian Ecus to the Bank of Marienburg, if I met with you. The letter contained the seal of the house of your Viscount."

Jacquard turned his head to look at him. "Y-yes. I did." He nodded. "We have a fair bit to talk about, Lieutenant."


End file.
